


Drapetomania

by Erandir



Series: Eldarion Surana [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, Grey Wardens, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Pacifist Warden, Reluctant Warden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 15:25:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11923755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erandir/pseuds/Erandir
Summary: Drapetomania: n. An overwhelming urge to run away.Eldarion Surana never wanted to leave the Circle.





	Drapetomania

The Grey Warden robes sat heavy on his shoulders, chain mail digging into his skin so very different from the robes he was used to. Pulling him down into the dark earth beneath his feet. Already the hems were stained with mud from slogging through the camp on errands, darkening the blue fabric to black. Black would be a much more suitable color.

In the valley below his vantage point soldiers milled into ranks and lines in preparation to face the approaching horde. Two men were already dead. Before the fighting had even begun. Two men - objectively better men than him - were already lying on funeral pyres. And yet he was still alive.

He had watched the Joining ritual claim two lives, and when the chalice was passed at last to him he had starred his potential end square in the face and thought it would at least be an end worth remembering. The Wardens would remember him - or at least the idea of him - and that was better than he had ever expected in the Circle. Not just another failed harrowing better forgotten.

But he was still alive.

Alive and about to watch hundreds of men face their end. Perhaps contribute to it. 

Alive to be turned into the weapon - the plague - the Wardens wanted.

* * *

He had not set foot outside Kinloch Hold for nearly a decade. And he had not wanted to.

Others would have jumped at this chance. Jowan would have jumped at this chance. A day ago he stood in the Harrowing Chamber and fully expected to die. It would have been a convenient moment for the Templars to be rid of him, and probably they would be doing the world a favor. 

Instead he stood now on open ground, felt the dirt beneath his boots, the wind against his skin and in his hair, and watched the sunset without a pane of glass between himself and the sky. 

And he was petrified.

“You should not sleep close to me,” he told Duncan as the Warden showed him how to build a campfire. “I sometimes give people nightmares.”

“Irving mentioned your… Unusual talents,” Duncan commented, obviously choosing his words carefully. “Grey Wardens are already prone to nightmares, so you needn’t worry about that with us.”

Talent was not a word he would have chosen. Curse more likely. “I wasn’t aware you had time to speak with him before we left.”

“I came to the Circle seeking not only the mages’ help in the coming battle, but also those with the potential to become Wardens themselves,” Duncan explained. “He recommended you.”

Was that why he had been allowed a Harrowing? The timing was suspicious.

“Irving told me your natural affinity for death magic is quite rare, and something the Chantry would rather see subdued. But those skills could be put to noble purpose with the Wardens. I admit I understand little of magic, but there are other mages among our ranks who could help you train, develop your skills to use against the Darkspawn.”

“You want me to kill.”

“In order to protect. The Darkspawn destroy everything they touch. Each one we slay is a hundred lives saved.”

* * *

His stomach roiled just thinking about it. Using magic to kill. One of the first things his magic had ever done, the source of all his misery. Even using it to kill darkspawn, a physical embodiment of evil, eased his mind only a fraction. There was too much potential for collateral damage. 

“Eldarion.”

At the sound of his name the mage tore his gaze away from the lines of soldiers in the valley below, from the torches rapidly approaching through the trees.

“It’s almost time,” Alistair informed him.

Alistair was a good Warden. The sort of man who would make a good one with a few more years experience under his belt. He had no qualms with fighting, had not cowered back, frozen with anxiety, when they ventured into the wilds. Had been disappointed to be held back from the battle, not relieved. 

Again his stomach churned, cold fear gripped his heart. Still, he took up his staff and turned on leaden feet. Because what choice did he have?


End file.
